


He Whom My Soul Loves

by CaseyStar



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Artist Steve Rogers, Avenger Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, First Time, M/M, Mugging, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Shy Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes, Topping from the Bottom, indulgent Bucky, injuries, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseyStar/pseuds/CaseyStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Captain Steve Rogers really did die in the Valkyrie, and it was Sam, Clint and Natasha that saved Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark decides the Avengers need their own official graphic novel series.</p><p>Enter artist Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Whom My Soul Loves

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for Deandraws as part of StuckyThorki Secret Santa, who requested shy!Steve and skinny!Steve/WS!Bucky. Also tried my best at fulfilling pet names, needy!Steve/indulgent!Bucky,, and Steve being somewhat dominate in the relationship despite being shy, the latter of which I've not really written much of in the past, so that was a fun challenge!  
> I hope it's okay! Sorry it's a bit late!
> 
> Over on tumblr [ kcsplace](http://kcsplace.tumblr.com), so come say hello there if you want.

It was Stark’s idea.

Because of course it fucking was. He _was_ his father’s son after all.

But quite how Stark’s insistence on an official Avengers comic led to Bucky’s current torture, buck-naked with Steve between his legs pressing all too fleeting kisses to his cock, Bucky wasn’t entirely clear on.

He couldn’t help but shiver when Steve trailed cold hands – hands that Bucky was obsessed with - up his thighs, ink stained fingers unbearably light as they stroked fire up to his balls. Under Bucky’s questing, desperate hands, Steve’s shoulders were warm, his bones so close under the skin. He seemed so fragile, so frail, but if there was one thing Bucky had learned over the last few months, it was that Steve Rogers was no delicate flower.

“Steve…” He breathed, teeth grit against the sight of Steve’s pink tongue snaking out to trace the swollen head of Bucky’s cock, the needy sounds escaping his throat the sweetest music to Bucky’s ears. “Steve, sweetheart, please…”

Steve grinned and took pity, opening up to swallow Bucky to the root, lips tight as he drew back, before taking him in again, Bucky fighting to keep his hips to the chair and to not thrust up into that sinful mouth until he came.

It wasn’t what Steve wanted from him, and Bucky always strove to give Steve everything he wanted.

Months ago, back when a delighted Stark had told all of the Avengers that they each had to report to a conference room so the new artist could get some sketches of them, he’d made a point of singling Bucky out.

“Even you, Tin Man,” he’d cut off Bucky’s immediate attempt to side-step the order, “I think _you’ll_ like him best of all.”

 

_Stark hadn’t stated when he had to sit though, so surely if Bucky put it off often enough, whatever hack Stark had hired would just give up and work off photographs. Bucky’s therapy was going well, and he was doing much better, but the thought of sitting in a room alone with a complete stranger, who wanted to do nothing but stare intently at him for hours wasn’t his idea of a great time._

_Even if the guy did seem to get the seal of approval from the others._

_“Seriously, dude, he’s a good guy,” Sam effused, “kinda quiet at first and a little shy, but he’s friendly and pretty funny once he gets to know you. He’s an incredible artist. Check out what he did for me.”_

_Sam passed over a caricature of himself in the Falcon suit, a broad smile on the illustration’s face, exaggerating the gap in his front teeth and high cheekbones, red and white wings spread out to either side of him. Bucky, in the face of Sam’s excited pride grudgingly admitted that it was pretty good. Even if the poor artist hadn’t managed to make Sam handsome._

_Running away from a furious Sam was pretty good exercise and damned entertaining._

_Still didn’t want to make him head down there._

_He didn’t know what to expect when he finally, under threat of Pepper being disappointed in him should he fail to go, trudged down to where the guy had set up shop and knocked on the door. But whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t what he got._

_The conference room had been cleared of the immense table and excruciatingly uncomfortable chairs that had been in-situ the last time that Bucky had had cause to be there – and threatened the ergonomically evil chairs with a flamethrower. In their place were a large couch, an armchair that was set up under one window and what appeared to be an architect’s desk under another. Several large portfolios were unzipped and spread out over a table next to the desk, a few books stacked next to them, their edges bristling with multi-colored tabs, and peeking out from under a collapsed stack of paper was an open Tupperware with an unfinished sandwich nestled inside. From a pair of tiny portable speakers came what Bucky would only be able to loosely describe as jazz, something slow that you’d dance to pressed cheek to cheek._

_Sat at the desk-_

_“Son of a bitch!”_

_The man’s head snapped up, and for a moment Bucky wondered if maybe he’d made a mistake by checking himself out of medical AMA after the Avengers last bout with a legion of alien robot foot-soldiers. The guy’s eyes were wide as the pencil he’d been holding scratched across the paper in front of him, no doubt ruining whatever he’d been working on and his free hand flailed to shut off the small speakers beside him._

_Bucky winced and apologied as he closed the door behind him and stepped into the room, trying his hardest to appear as non-threatening as possible._

_Which was pretty hard between his size and metal arm._

_He was, however, exceedingly grateful that he’d chosen to leave all bar one of his knives upstairs._

_“Uh, hi. I’m uh, Bucky Barnes.”_

_The guy was small, and even though he was seated Bucky could tell he was going to be short, but his shoulders appeared relatively broad despite it, and the fingers wrapped knuckle-white around his pencil were long and elegant. He was approximately Bucky’s age, though he suspected that the other man was often assumed to be much younger due to his small stature and how his straw-blond hair was disheveled over his forehead, almost into his eyes, lending him a boyish air._

_He shouldn’t have been the artist, he should have been the muse; between his high cheekbones and plush lips, chiseled jawline, and blue eyes, his was a face designed to be immortalized on canvas._

_He was incredibly, inconveniently, attractive._

_He also looked marginally terrified, eyes flitting from Bucky to the door and back again, before a nervous smile had graced his lips and he introduced himself. Steve pushed his bangs back, an achingly familiar gesture, before stuffing his hands into his pockets, when he’d noticed Bucky’s attention to the action._

_“Steve Rogers.”_

_Bucky couldn’t help himself. “Seriously?”_

_A spark of anger flashed in Steve’s eyes, his jaw clenching as he sighed._

_“Yes, seriously,” he’d grit out. “My parents saw their opportunity and they took it.” His tone was laced with bitterness and it was clear to Bucky that his response was hardly the first time the artist had heard it, and he regretted his words immediately. Steve had likely spent his whole life hearing some variation of Bucky’s response, not to mention no doubt countless comparisons to the legend that was Captain America._

_Who just happened to have been Bucky’s best friend._

_Oh, this was fucking awesome._

_“You, uh, you actually look a bit like-”_

_“The ‘before’ picture, maybe.”_

_There was an anger there, like a second skin, an armour Steve had long ago donned against a cold world that had tried to grind him beneath an unfeeling heel and had instead managed only to sharpen his edges. An anger that overrode his shyness, allowing a glimpse into the fire within him._

_“I’m sorry,” Bucky offered, contrite. “Really. I was just kinda surprised. Uh, where do you want me?” He asked, hoping to smooth over ruffled feathers._

_Steve’s eyes dropped to the paper, and he set to scrubbing out the mark he’d scored when Bucky had startled him._

_“I’m, uh, I’m really sorry.”_

_The frustration drained from Steve’s face as quickly as it’d come and he gestured to the armchair without looking up at Bucky, with a mumbled, “That’s okay,” and Bucky was pretty certain Steve blushed._

_It only made him even more attractive._

_Bucky was going to kill Stark. He didn’t doubt from a moment that Steve was talented, Stark would never had hired him otherwise, but he’d also bet the entirety of his rather sizeable checking account that the man had been fucking delighted when he’d seen a picture of the guy and decided to fuck with Barnes._

_Revenge was going to be swift and considerable._

_For a moment, it seemed like Steve was going to say something more, but as soon as his eyes flicked up to meet Bucky’s, he instead closed his mouth again; Bucky couldn’t blame the guy. He supposed, bitterly, that it was to be expected. Especially as, according to Clint, he had murder eyes. The other Avengers were heroes, he was the Asset. The mindless cyborg of nightmares, a monster that betrayed his country. Why would anyone want to spend time alone in a room with him? He wouldn’t wanna be shut in a room with a monster either, especially not one he’d just snapped at. Certainly not when he looked almost exactly like said monster’s dead best friend._

_Y’know, “I can go get Sam, if you want,” Bucky offered, pointing at the door. “Or Natasha should be back by now.”_

_Steve looked up at him then, brow knit in confusion._

_“Why?”_  
  
_Bucky shrugged, embarrassed. “You don’t…I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or nothin’. I know what people say about me… You seem kinda-”_

 _He really didn’t want to say ‘_ scared _’._

_“No!” Steve blurted. “I’m sorry. It’s not -” He sighed, rubbing the heel of one hand into his eye, “I’m not good with new people, even when they’re not heroes, and you guys are kinda intimidating.” He shot Bucky a nervous smile._

_“Plus, y’know, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable staring at you. People probably do that a lot.” He was definitely blushing then, getting reader the more he babbled, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from trying to qualify his statement._

_“Not because of the-” he gestured to Bucky’s left arm where it was covered by his hoodie, “but because of the whole…‘back from the dead’ thing,” Bucky silently thanked him for not mentioning the decades of torture, “and you know, all of your, uh, well…” Steve waved a hand in the general direction of Bucky’s face, though he missed Bucky’s embarrassed grin, because he immediately ducked his own head, treating Bucky to the sight of him blinking rapidly, displaying eyelashes that would have made painters weep, cheeks coloring with mortification._

_“Thanks,” Bucky laughed, charmed. “But I got a question?”_

_“Uh-huh?” Steve didn’t look up, almost tearing the paper with how hard he was rubbing out the scratched line._

_“Ain’t that gonna make it real hard for you to draw me? If you won’t look at me?” Bucky teased, hoping it’d help the guy relax a little. There was something about him that had Bucky wanting to make him laugh, to release the tension in his shoulders, to get that fire back in his eyes._

_It worked, a little at least, Steve’s shoulders relaxing, the eraser in his grasp no longer in danger of being snapped in two and the corners of his mouth twitched as though he might smile. He even glanced back up at Bucky._

_“Let’s start over.” Bucky sauntered up to the desk, offering up his right hand for Steve to shake._

_“Bucky Barnes.”_

_Steve took his hand without a moment’s hesitation, his grip sure and strong, fingers callused from pencil rather than gun._

_“Steve Rogers.”_

_“I’m absolutely not going to be an asshole and make any sorta comment about that at all.”_

_Steve rolled his eyes and Bucky grinned in triumph._

_“Jerk.” There was the fire, or at least a spark of it and Bucky could work with that._

_“Punk! So we gonna get going?” Wanting to hear him laughing again, Bucky struck a ridiculous pose. “Draw me like-”_

_“Don’t you dare!” Steve warned, rolling his eyes so hard Bucky feared he’d strain something._

_“Lemme guess, Sam already did it?”_

_“Sam, Natasha and Mister Stark. He even started to take off his pants.” Steve’s expression showed exactly how traumatised he still wise by that little display._

_“Nat?!” Bucky asked. He didn’t think it was her style, though maybe like him, it’d been to get a laugh out of the shy artist. He wasn’t even going to touch on Stark stripping down. That man needed precisely no encouragement to disrobe, and Steve definitely didn’t need to suffer flashbacks._

_“Well,” Steve admitted, “I don’t think it really counts if she was doing an impression of Sam.” Bucky desperately wanted to ask Steve crack out an impression of Natasha’s impression of Sam, but figured that was the fastest way to get Steve to retreat back into his shell. Besides, something else had caught his attention._

_“You call him Mister Stark? He ain’t no mister!”_

_“He’s my boss,” Steve defended, scrubbing his palms against his jeans._

_“He’s an idiot.”_

_Steve mumbled something about how Bucky might think that, but that_ he _couldn’t possibly comment that Bucky was pretty certain he wasn’t meant to hear, but had Bucky biting down on the inside of his cheek to not smile._

_“So, how do you want me, doll?” Bucky asked as he walked over to the window and dropped into the chair. The large window let in all the early afternoon light, and if he hadn’t been far more interested in watching Steve, Bucky would have been happy to bask in the warmth._

_“Uh, well, I’m gonna need you to make a variety of expressions,” Steve set about clipping a new sheet to his desk and arranging his pencils, all business, “and from a few angles. And, uh, could you maybe let your hair down?”_

_“Don’t think I’m rocking the bun? You want my ‘I’m worth it’ moment?”_

_Bucky was sure that if Steve didn’t stop with the sweet blush and crooked smile he was gonna get arrested for some form of lewd behavior. He’d briefly worried while he’d been resisting coming down here that, aside from being aggravating being stared at, it would be boring. Staring into the middle distance and holding a particular facial expression wasn’t exactly scintillating as activities went, but that was when one Steve Rogers wasn’t in the room._

_It wasn’t difficult to covertly watch Steve; Bucky had copious amounts of training. The artist was beautiful as he went about preparing for his sketches, from the plump lips that he had bitten between his teeth as he concentrated on the paper in front of him, to the way his long fingers had gone from holding the pencil like he wanted to kill it, to like a lover, his grip light._

_Five of some of the tensest minutes of Bucky’s life later, however, it was evident that the other man wasn’t exactly relaxed in his company for all his shoulders weren’t tight under his ears anymore. Maybe he was regretting not taking Bucky up on his offer to fetch a chaperone._

_Well, he could kill two birds with one stone – get Steve to relax and learn more about him._

_“Hey,” he tried, smiling when Steve looked up, expression a little startled, “if you want, you can turn your music back on, won’t bother me.”_

_“Y-you sure?”_

_“Yeah, go nuts.”_

_Reaching over to set it up, Steve glanced back up again. “If you want me to turn it off-”_

_“I liked what I heard when I came in.”_

_“All five seconds of it?”_

_Bucky barked out a laugh. Under all that shyness, Steve was secretly a real pistol, even if he hadn’t been able to look at Bucky when he’d spoken._

_“Point. But I’m never gonna know if you don’t actually play it.” He flashed Steve his most winsome smile when the artist turned to him after turning the music back on, something almost like a challenge hidden deep in his gaze._

_Bucky hadn’t been lying; the music wasn’t far off what he remembered listening to back before, though he’d preferred the later Swing style. Nevertheless it had him tapping his toes as he watched Steve, hypnotized by the easy sweeps of his hand as he sketched and the way he was humming along to the music._

_“So,” Bucky drawled, “when did you start drawing?” It was a deliberately neutral question, not asking Steve to reveal anything too personal or intimate, unless he wanted to._

_“Oh, uh, since I was a kid, I guess.” He glanced up at Bucky and adjusted his grip, holding the pencil at more of an acute angle._

_“Yeah?”_

_“My ma said I always had a crayon in my hand, soon as I could hold ‘em.” The fondness in Steve’s tone was endearing as he spoke about his mother. Maybe it was the generation that Bucky had been born into, but he always judged a man on how he spoke of his ma._

_“You scribble ‘em up your ma’s wall? I did that once. Pencil right up the doorjamb. My pa wasn’t impressed,” Bucky shared. “Didn’t sit for a week.”_

_“Nah, never drew on the walls.” He frowned for a second, looking up at Bucky with narrowed eyes before correcting a line, staying silent so long that Bucky began to worry he’d pushed too hard and made the guy clam up, except he didn’t seem any more nervous than before. Exchanging one pencil for another, Steve looked up again._

_“I did much worse ‘n that.”_

_“Worse?”_

_“Acrylic paint.”_

_Bucky threw back his head and laughed._

_“Seriously? Jesus, that’s unbelievable.”_

_“Gets worse,” Steve admitted once Bucky had calmed himself down, fighting to hold the neutral expression Steve had asked of him._

_“Yeah?”_

_“It wasn’t the wall.”_

_“Steve Rogers, tell me you didn’t ruin your ma’s good tablecloth or somethin’.”_

_Steve grimaced, eyes darting away as a flush crept up his neck._

_“You did?!”_

_“It wasn’t on purpose! I was four!”_

_Bucky laughed softly. “And she still let you grow up to be an artist?”_  
  
“I had to promise never to do anything without a tarp down.” Even now, easily twenty-five years later, it was easy to see Steve still felt bad about it.

_“I bet.”_

_Steve looked up, hand hovering over the paper as he tilted his head slightly, observing Bucky’s features with a little frown._

_“You need me to stop talking, huh?”_

_Steve nodded._

_“In which case, you’re gonna have to keep me entertained.”_

_“Entertained?”_

_“Yeah, talk to me. Seriously, about anything you want. The music, your favorite TV show, which is superior: cats or dogs…anything.”_

_“Cats or dogs?” Steve asked, a hint of amusement in his tone._

_“Hey,” Bucky held his hands up, much to Steve’s irritation, “Sam and Natasha are still, two months later, debating which is the better pet.”_

_Steve thought for a moment._

_“Both are good.”_

_Well. That was short and sweet._

_Steve didn’t say anything more for a couple of minutes, but Bucky didn’t prompt him, staying still, not wanting to ruin Steve’s work or make his job harder._

_Despite what a few people might say – cough, Stark, cough – Bucky wasn’t actually an asshole._

_“We had a cat when I was little. It was a stray I found in the alley behind our apartment building. We weren’t allowed pets but I smuggled her inside in my sweater and my ma let me keep her. We called her Peep because she had a tiny meow.”_

_As he drew, Steve talked, haltingly at first but slowly his voice lost its tremor as he warmed to his subject, fondness infusing his tone. He told Bucky about how Peep had grown like a weed once she was being fed regularly. How she’d slept under his bed at night, her rumbling purr lulling him to sleep. How his ma had been wrapped around Peep’s paw, and how she’d been devastated by Peep’s death a decade later. He told Bucky how he wanted to get a rescue dog when he could better afford it._

_Throughout it all, Bucky listened as Steve talked, halting and sometimes slow, occasionally little more than a whisper. He soaked in all the little pieces of information, squirreling it all away and keeping it safe. Occasionally there were things Bucky could say, questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t, staying still because it was what Steve needed._

_It wasn’t until Steve had finished up, until Bucky had very much not lingered to help Steve pack up his stuff, and definitely not watched him leave as covertly as possible – it wasn’t his fault that Stark had mirrored every wall in the lobby of the Tower – and not until he’d eschewed the elevators to work off the buzzing energy that seemed to hum under his skin, running up the stairs three at a time, that Bucky realized he’d had his hoodie on the whole time. Meaning the arm – his arm - had been hidden._

_He doubted that he was meant to be depicted without the infamous appendage._

_He’d have to come back._

_What a damn shame._

_Bucky wondered if turning up the next day would be considered too soon._

 

Steve resisted Bucky’s tugging at his hair, instead redoubling his efforts, sucking Bucky harder, eyes narrowed in challenge and triumph when Bucky’s fingers clawed at his scalp, hips thrusting up as he groaned.

But he _had_ to get Steve off him or risk disappointing him, given how his lover had been perfectly clear that what he wanted tonight was to be fucked until he couldn’t walk straight, reconnecting with his lover after a miserable eight days of Bucky being away on Avengers business. So Bucky released Steve’s hair and instead slid a finger into his mouth alongside his cock to break the seal of Steve’s lips making it far easier to push him back as Bucky shifted his hips backwards, the cool air after the heat of Steve’s mouth enough to take the edge off.

Steve whined in the back of his throat, hands tight on Bucky’s nape as he rocked up onto his knees to get closer and Bucky acted without thought. Leagning down a little, it was easy to smooth his hands down Steve’s back, over the gentle swell of his ass and down, gripping and pulling and hauling up, standing as he did so and urging Steve to wrap his long legs around his waist, holding him up with strong hands under his thighs. In reward, Steve nipped his lower lip, soothing the hurt with his tongue. Slim hands slid from Bucky’s nape to cradle his skull, keeping Bucky right where he wanted him, all hesitance and timidity falling away as he kissed Bucky with all the passion and fervor he usually reserved for his art.

Bucky broke the kiss as he started to walk them over the couch – and the lube stashed among its cushions - and Steve grumbled, head tilting back, the inviting column of his neck exposed in blatant invitation. Steve’s legs tightened around Bucky’s hips and Bucky was more than happy to sink further into Steve’s possession as he nipped at the pale throat, marking him with art of his own, show the Steve was as much his as Bucky was Steve’s

 

 

_Going back to see Steve again – properly -ended up not happening for another six days. He’d managed to hold out almost two days before heading back down to see Steve, desperate not to appear…well, not to put too fine a point on it, desperate._

_Steve had been surprised but not unhappy to see him, and had welcomed him into the room, the space around his desk as chaotic as the time before – Bucky was half certain it was the same sandwich in the Tupperware._

_Bucky had gotten to spend all of five minutes in the company of the artist, not actually getting around to the reason for his visit in favor of asking Steve about the music he was playing , before Jarvis had interrupted, and he’d had to haul ass back upstairs to change. He’d only just made it to the roof before the Quinjet arrived. He was, however, growing as a person; he manfully ignored the smirk that Stark threw him when he stepped on-board the aircraft, as well as the many barely-veiled jabs about artists._

_Bucky would never quite understand why so many scientists managed to go quite so bat-shit crazy, but when they did, they really committed. Because you’d have to be more twisted than a corkscrew in a hurricane to think Battle Bunnies were a good idea._

_It had taken five showers to finally get the violet colored goo out of his hair – between each Avenger essentially moving into their showers the drains in Stark Tower had kept several teams of plumbers extremely well paid with both how efficiently the goo blocked the pipes, and how corrosive the shit was when mixed with water - to the point Tony was excitedly studying it - which had been a super fun discovery mid-shower. It had taken a further three days, and more showers than a human being should take in a year, before the smell had dissipated enough that any of the Avengers were willing to actually be seen in public._

_Bucky might have been a little too enthusiastic to see Steve again, but he was not going to visit the artist stinking like a cross between rotting vegetation, dung and a really enthusiastic skunk. Hell, even Clint, had refused to go out, though maybe that wasn’t saying much given everything Clint really loved was right there in his suite – Natasha, dog, archery range, coffee, and pizza could be delivered. If it wasn’t for the inconvenience of having to sporadically save state, country or planet, he’d never leave._

_He’d also, according to Natasha, never shower. So maybe a little evil scientist action wasn’t the end of the world._

_It certainly wouldn’t be the end of the world if the weapon of mass destruction was Battle Bunnies._

_They were giant, surprisingly bad-tempered, destructive, shitting machines, sure, but they were also hard to control, especially by a mad scientist who didn’t seem to know quite what he wanted them to do, and were easily frightened. They’d only been so hard to dispatch because there had just been so many of them and once they’d realized they outnumbered an enemy they tended to eat what had scared them in a terrifying display of revenge._

_Bucky would be having nightmares of blood soaked whiskers for weeks._

_There’d also been only so much of Tony running commentary about how the only Battle Bunnies he had any interest in were the Playboy kind in a vat of Jello having a wrestling contest that Bucky could stand. If it wouldn’t have made Pepper sad, Bucky would have happily fed the Iron Idiot to one of the voraciously carnivorous beasts. Especially after he’d taken to blowing them up, hence the violet goo that was a mix of bile, stomach acid and drool._

_It was disgusting._

_Disgust, strangely enough, wasn’t the emotion Bucky really wanted to evoke in Steve._

_He really didn’t want to examine too closely precisely why that was._

_But he had a fluttering of hope that he wasn’t the only one that wanted him back in that conference room; when he’d returned, dripping and pissed, from Battle Bunny fun-times, tucked under the door to his suite at the Tower was an envelope, unfamiliar penmanship scrawled across it. Clipped to a corner was a note in Pepper’s neat script explaining she’d dropped it off. Written across the front was,_

_‘Heroes should be immortalized.’_

_Bucky had been afraid to find a caricature in the envelope, unwilling to discover which feature the artist would have chosen to emphasize, though he was sure it’d not be the arm._

_It wasn’t a caricature. It was a short comic consisting of several panels depicting the Winter Soldier defending his country, felling Battle Bunnies with ease and a grumpy quip._

_Bucky wanted it fucking framed._

 

Steve bounced once when Bucky dropped him onto the couch before struggling up into a sitting position, a hungry look on his face as he licked his lips.

 “How’d I get so lucky?” Bucky mused, reaching out to cup his cheek, heart clenching as Steve leaned into his hand, nuzzling against the sensitive skin, turning his head to press kiss after kiss to his palm. The twitch of Bucky’s cock and the hitch in his breath had Steve turning his head to suck two of Bucky’s fingers into his mouth, looking up at Bucky as he did, hollowing his cheeks, thrilling in how Bucky’s mouth fell open, breath escaping in a whoosh, tongue snaking out to wet his lips, eyes glassy.

A fumbling hand slid around his neck and down over his chest to grasp the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards, Steve sucking in a breath when Bucky’s metal fingers grazed over his stomach, ducking his head just a little. But he helped Bucky remove the shirt and, flushing under Bucky’s gaze, he sat there, bare-chested and defiant, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, though they twitched a couple times as though he longed to cover himself up, but was too stubborn and brave.

The first time they’d been together, Steve _had_ hidden himself from Bucky’s voracious gaze, thin arms wrapped around his torso, naked and vulnerable, Bucky overwhelmed by the implicit trust. Now after weeks of such intimacy, after weeks of Bucky’s appreciation and very vocal encouragement, Steve was blooming, taking pride in how he aroused Bucky.

“You’re a work of art, y’know?” Bucky mumbled. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, babydoll.”

“Art can be interactive, Buck. C’mon.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate, hands gliding over warm skin and sparse hair, earning a groan when his fingers brushed over a nipple.

 

 

_The next day, leaving his order for a frame in the capable non-existent hands of Jarvis, Bucky hurried down the stairs, hair still wet from a final shower just to ensure lingering aromas were a thing of the too-recent past, still chewing his fifth slice of toast folded around four rashers of bacon. With his heightened metabolism, some days it seemed like the only thing Bucky did was eat. It actually became a fucking chore to eat enough to keep his enhanced body ticking over, and after a fight, even against ridiculous giant rabbits, it only got worse._

_Chewing industriously, Bucky swallowed hard and wiped away any crumbs around his mouth and off his sweater. Reaching for the door handle, he refused to acknowledge that his hand was shaking and instead strode into the room with all the fake confidence he could muster._

_“Heya, Steve!”_

_Startled, Steve looked up, a smile spreading over his face when he caught sight of Bucky._

_“You’re back.”_

_“In one piece too, which is pretty awesome. No longer purple either.”_

_Steve’s eyes flit over Bucky’s face, as though searching for bruises or marks that had long since faded, though he knew he’d been real pretty right after the fight, bleeding for a number of deep lacerations and covered in bruises thanks to the Battle Bunnies penchant for pummeling their opponents with their powerful hind-legs._

_Steve chuckled, looking down at his drawing, the artist part way through inking a page._

_“Hey, uh,” Steve looked up as Bucky hesitated, “thanks for the drawing. It’s incredible. I’m getting it framed.”_

_Steve ducked his head, but Bucky could see the smile that stretched his lips, the artist flattered and embarrassed._

_“Oh. Uh, you’re welcome.” It almost sounded like a question. “It’s only a little -”_

_“It ain’t ‘only’ anything. I really appreciate it. Made the whole Battle Bunny thing worth it.”_

_“Battle Bunny?”_

_“Don’t look at me! I didn’t name ‘em.”_

_“Clint?”_

_“Now, why’dya think that?” Bucky drawled with a smirk._

_“Gut feeling?”_

_“You askin’ or telling?”_

_Despite his enormous breakfast it felt like he’d barely walked in the door before his stomach started rumbling._

_But when the sound came again five minutes later - mid Bucky re-enacting a moment when he thought he was going to get swallowed - a low growl like a wounded animal, Bucky realized his mistake; it wasn’t his stomach, it was Steve’s, even if the artist showed no sign of having noticed. It didn’t take any time at all for the Avenger to make a decision_

_“Hey, if I ordered a pizza, there any toppings you don’t like?”_

_“Hmmm?” Steve replied, not looking up from his work._

_“Pizza,” Bucky repeated. “Anything you don’t like?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“If I ordered pizza, is there anything you don’t or can’t eat?”_

_“Oh,” Steve shook his head. “I’m fine. You order what you want.”_

_“Steve,” wheedled Bucky._

_“Honestly, I’m fine.”_

_Which was such a lie._

_One which Bucky wasn’t going to stand for; Steve was rail thin and whatever it was in the today’s Tupperware wasn’t looking all that palatable._

_“C’mon,” he wheedled, “polite fella like you wouldn’t make a guy eat alone.” Bucky wasn’t above a little manipulation, not when it came to Steve’s well-being, which was a mindfuck all of its own._

_He’d met the guy three times for fuck’s sake._

_“Really, you go ahead, I won’t mind,” Steve’s eyes were practically glued to the page, his shoulders tight. “I’m honestly not hungry.” His stomach growled again, betraying the lie._

_“Uh-huh. Wanna try that again?”_

_Sighing, Steve put his pen down. “I gotta lot of allergies. It’s a lot of effort and-” he trailed off with a shrug._

_‘_ And people have made you feel like a burden for it in the past’ _Bucky filled in._

_“Stark’s got a bunch of restaurants that cater to that. You just gotta tell me what ya need.”_

_Checkmate._

_Bucky could pinpoint the microsecond Steve caved and he grinned._

_“Good choice.” Bucky wrestled with his jeans to tug his phone free and fired off a text to Pepper. It was the work of a few minutes to pry the relevant allergy information out of Steve, fighting to maintain a neutral expression when the list seemed unending, the other man getting increasingly hesitant with each new reveal, as though he was waiting for that to be the last straw, that Bucky would rescind the offer of a shared meal._

_That he’d declare Steve too much trouble._

_When he was finished, he shot Bucky the most heartrendingly apologetic smile and Bucky was rocked with the strength of his desire to throttle each and every person that had made Steve feel as though he were too much effort._

_“You good with pizza? We can get something else?”_

_“Yeah,” Steve breathed, looking surprised Bucky wasn’t commenting in some way. “Yeah, pizza is just fine.”_

_It wasn’t fair how attractive Steve was with that now familiar blush racing up his neck, and Bucky was grateful for the beep of his phone giving him something to do that wasn’t stare like an idiot._

_“Huh,” he said, “it’s good to be Stark.” He turned the phone towards Steve to show him the truly ridiculously lengthy list of local restaurants that were ready and able to cater to Steve’s dietary needs._

_With Jarvis taking over the actual ordering, the AI reassuring Steve no less than seven times that Stark Industries would be happy to foot the bill after he ignored Bucky, Bucky stole his pen from lax fingers, capping it and shoving it in his pocket. He grinned at Steve’s moue of annoyance._

_“C’mon, I know you arrive at stupid o’clock in the morning. Break time until the pizza is here.”_

_Watching Steve suck tomato sauce off his fingers was going to be one hell of a test to Bucky’s libido, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t intent on enjoying every second of it._

The kiss started out little more than a press of lips, achingly soft, before Steve whined and tugged at Bucky’s hips to get him to step between Steve’s splayed thighs, desperate for heat, for contact, for the press of his skin against Bucky’s.

Bucky smiled grinned into the kiss, kneeling carefully onto the sliver of couch between Steve’s thighs, pressing their chests together, drinking in Steve’s happy sigh. Nibbling at Steve’s lower lip, Bucky thrilled at the whimper he elicited, sliding his tongue into Steve’s mouth, one hand dropping to Steve’s covered crotch and cupping the bulge he found.

He felt desperate, always so starving for Steve.

But it was nothing on Steve’s need, his hands clutching at Bucky as if terrified that his lover would disappear, moaning harsh sounds of _want_ into Bucky’s mouth, who swallowed them down and kept them safe. Steve’s hands roamed across Bucky’s shoulders, sliding down the valley of his spine, blunt nails scoring lines into his back.

So distracted was he, Bucky was utterly unprepared for Steve’s surge from the couch, throwing both of them flat to the floor, landing atop Bucky and straddling his hips. Steve’s mouth was hot and hungry and Bucky grinned into the kiss as Steve wrapped his hands around his wrists and tugged his hands down to cup Steve’s ass, the artist thrusting into Bucky’s crotch, careful still in deference to Bucky’s bare cock.

 

_“You don’t have to y’know.” Steve looked up at Bucky, eyes darting to his left arm. “I can use photographs.”_

_A week ago it had been exactly what Bucky had wanted, and yet his heart sunk at the thought. It would be so easy, so fucking easy to take that option. To let Jarvis provide the necessary images and move on. But it wasn’t the road Bucky was willing to go down. He couldn’t be afraid._

_Not here. Not with Steve._

_Going out with the Avengers in his modified field uniform, arm on show was totally different to sitting in a room with someone he cared about and unveiling it, but with a glance at Steve, and then down at where his sweater still covered his arm, Bucky made his decision, drawing in a deep breath.  He was sure Steve was being 100% honest when he said he’d work off pictures, and he’d do it happily, never to bring the subject up again, but sometimes things needed to be faced._

_“I want to,” he said, the words little more than a sigh._

_He wanted to show Steve every part of himself._

_Steve nodded, barely breathing as he waited._

_Setting his jaw, Bucky tugged his sweater up and over his head, balling it up to drop on top of Steve’s littered portfolios._

_“Thank you,” Steve whispered, looking Bucky in the eye and not staring at the revealed limb like so many had when he’d first been brought into SHIELD._

_It felt different standing in front of Steve like that, less exposed and less vulnerable than the other times he’d had to give people a gander at HYDRA’s cutting edge technology. Maybe because it was his choice rather than it being a condition of his surrender. Maybe because he wasn’t feeling threatened._

_Maybe because it was Steve._

_Either way, he didn’t feel cold inside, didn’t freeze up and hold his breath and just…_

_Stop._

_Because Steve wasn’t looking at him with ill-disguised fear, or hatred or disgust. He wasn’t looking at him like a laboratory experiment, or with over-much glee at the idea of taking a peek beneath the hood of the world’s most prolific assassin._

_No._

_Steve’s gaze was soft, filled with admiration and respect, and something Bucky hesitated to call awe._

_It was only after Bucky’s sharp nod, that Steve shifted his attention from his face to his arm, reaching out for it, ink-stained hands trembling slightly. Fingertips inches away from the vibranium, Steve hesitated, drawing his hands away to drop into his lap._

_“I’m sorry,” he said. “Can I – can I touch you?”_

_Swallowing hard, Bucky nodded again, grateful beyond measure that Steve hadn’t used the word ‘it’, even when he himself so often did. He fought not to close his eyes and shut out the world, instead forcing himself to watch as Steve’s hands once more reached for him._

_Bucky’s breath caught at how Steve’s touch was so light, his hands cradling Bucky’s arm like it was something precious, and his gut twisted at how Steve glanced up at his face to ensure that he was still okay with it, before continuing on with his examination. Bucky had to clench his teeth against the prickle of tears that threatened from how pathetically grateful he was.  
_

_He should probably tell the artist that he didn’t need to be so careful. That for all his arm’s technological advancements, it only received a paltry amount of sensation from a few pressure receptors and as a result he couldn’t really feel much of anything from the limb unless it was electrocuted or broken._

_It was a weapon. It was to hurt and kill. Weapons didn’t feel pain and so there was no reason to ensure the Asset could._

_And yet…_

_In Steve’s hands it was almost a thing of beauty, as though it was something entirely new; slim fingers traced the edges of the plates, touch light as if he was afraid of hurting Bucky further._

_“It, uh, I can’t feel it, you don’t have to be-”_

_“Shhh.” Steve’s hold remained delicate, gently turning the limb this way and that, humming as he discovered each new facet, huffing in surprise when Bucky moved his arm at his urging, the plates re-calibrating, their high-pitched whirr loud without Steve’s music._

_He showed no fear._

_He’d been fully prepared for Steve to be frightened of him now, no matter how much the younger man had protested otherwise when they’d met; it was one thing to look upon a weapon, another entirely to hold it in your hands._

_Shy Steve may be, but he was also stupidly brave._

_Steve, with Bucky’s arm in his hands, had the same expression on his face as when he’d gone soft and dazed talking about Turner’s works, a man looking upon a priceless piece of art._

_He was assured, gentle but determined, and every muscle in Bucky that had clenched in fear of being rejected began to relax as he held himself still and let the artist look his fill._

_In turn, unable to watch Steve’s hands explore his arm, he watched Steve. Was it normal for someone to have eyelashes that long? They were like wings, their fan a dark smudge against pale skin. Steve was beautiful, almost exactly like a boy Bucky had once known and a man he could barely remember, and yet so completely different, a whole new man.._

_“You’re staring at me,” Steve hadn’t looked up from his exploration of the intricacies of the metal arm._

_“No I’m not,” he denied automatically, flicking his gaze to the floor, feeling a flush creep up his neck at Steve’s disbelieving snort._

_“It’s beautiful.”_

_Now Bucky laughed, a hard, sharp burst ripping from his throat before he could stop it. Steve looked up but didn’t recoil or move away, slim fingers continuing their examination of the limb._

_“It is,” he insisted. “Look.” Steve traced the length of one of the deep grooves between two plates, the circuits below just visible. “See how perfectly aligned it is? How these lines are so smooth? And right here,” Steve gently manipulated his arm a little so the elbow joint was more visible. “Here, the plates are smaller, the chevrons are deeper to allow that articulation, and they move differently. It is beautiful, Bucky.”_

_Looking down, he observed the arm and tried to see what Steve did, to look past his revulsion at what had been done to him, and see the limb for what it was – a masterpiece of engineering. It was hardly a new experience for him; Doctor Garner had been working with him for months on accepting the appendage as his, but while he was making progress on that, he couldn’t quite see it through Steve’s eyes._

_“It’s for killing people.” His tone was flat, hard._

_“That’s what they made you do with it, not what you choose to do. You are not what they tried to make you.”_

_““I was the greatest assassin of all time and shaped the century into God knows what. I am exactly what they made me,” Bucky argued, right hand trembling as something stabbed through him, short and sharp._

_“You choose to go out and protect people with it, you fight monster rabbit-”_

_“Battle Bunnies,” Bucky corrected faintly._

_“-with it. You fought aliens six months ago and you carried two children away from them with this arm, leaving your other arm free to protect your teammates with. It’s beautiful. You are not your past. You are not what they twisted you into, Buck.”_

_Bucky could only blink at him as Steve released his arm, seeming to take all the warmth and light in the room away as he dropped his hands to his lap once more, unknowingly leaving Bucky bereft._

 

 

Bucky loved how Steve felt above him; solid and warm as he rocked himself over Bucky’s crotch, Bucky’s palms cupping sharp hips, guiding his movements as Steve gasped and writhed.

Seeing Steve like that, so free and gorgeous, Bucky never felt more powerful. Between his height and strength, Bucky had grown used to being physically dominant with his partners, even what little he remembered of _before._    Then all it would take would be for Steve to whisper out a plea like a demand, and Bucky knew he’d never fail to obey because all that power was all an illusion.

He was a hopeless worshiper, at Steve’s beck and call, desperate to be the one to bring pleasure and joy to the man he adored. It didn’t matter that it was Bucky that could throw Steve onto a bed, or fuck him against a wall without effort, it was Steve with all the real power.

But that didn’t mean Bucky couldn’t tease a little.

Bucky fervently hoped that Steve would never find out how far he was wrapped around the artist’s finger, how driven he was to indulge every want and need of his lover regardless of the cost, though he suspected, from the dazed smiles Steve would reward him with, that the smaller man was all too aware of the power he had over Bucky, and would never abuse the trust.

“Want you,” Steve ground out, Bucky laughing as Steve encouraged him to roll them, gazing happily up at Bucky.

“Bossy.”           

“And?”

“Just sayin’, sugar.”

“Less sayin’, more fucking.”

“Your wish, my command.”

If Bucky has an obsession with Steve’s hands, then the same could be said of Steve. Over their weeks together Bucky hadn’t missed how Steve would watch his hands and knew how Steve’s skin sang with want, crying out to be touched and stroked, to have Bucky’s own skin pressed to his, hands trailing over his body, soothing the want, keeping Steve held together another day longer. He could almost hear Steve wondering about how Bucky would touch him next. Perhaps one palm stroking over his stomach, closing over a hip or trailing down the swells of his spine…

Curling around his cock.

Steve came alive when Bucky palmed the obscene ridge of his cock, hard beneath his slacks, head falling back as he moaned, mouth red and slack and glistening. Bucky was sure that Steve was leaking, the soft cotton of his boxers damp and rasping over the swollen head of his cock as Bucky stroked him.

“Please,” Steve gasped on a ragged breath, thrusting his hips up, one hand flailing to try to bring Bucky’s free hand to his belt. Bucky laughed at his attempt, ignoring his pleas and instead cupping Steve’s balls, the tips of his long fingers pressing the seam of Steve’s pants between his cheeks and rubbing.

“Fuck!”

 

_Bucky had learned a lot in the last couple months, chief among them that someone being shy didn’t negate that they could also be a mouthy little shit once they got to know you._

_Bossy too._

_The days Bucky had to sit for Steve had long since passed, now he was curled up on the couch because he wanted to be. Because Steve’s presence was a balm on his nerves. Because Steve was secretly hilarious now he wasn’t so shy around Bucky. Because Steve was gorgeous like this, when he was creating something beautiful from nothing._

_Bucky was sure that to Steve, the bundles of pencils and charcoal and brushes and pens were meticulously ordered and kept, but Bucky loved the seemingly haphazard placement of them all, how lovingly Steve would pick up each new tool and how roughly he’d drop each one again to select another, only to return to gentle when he slid them all back into their cases when his work was complete._

_Bucky loved these moments, the way Steve’s expression was so open and unguarded when he drew, the crease that formed between his eyebrows and the joy that lit up his features as the pictures took shape, panel after panel creating a rich and glorious world._

_One where the heroes were never down long, where nobody really died, the bad guys always got what was coming to them and the good guys only ever succeeded._

_When he was engrossed in his art like he was then, Steve never seemed to notice, or care, that Bucky stared. There were none of his usual twitches, his hair - falling forward over his forehead time and again - went unheeded, and his cheeks were free of the blush that so often colored them at other times. Bucky’d had some talent of his own with a pencil back when his hands had been slick with pomade and not blood, but he was sure he’d never looked at a piece the way Steve did._

_Like it was the only thing in the world._

_Like how he suspected he looked at Steve._

_Being with Steve, watching him so stripped down, so fucking gorgeous as he was lost in his art, made Bucky want to take up a pencil again, happy to spend the rest of his life perfecting the bow of Steve’s upper lip, the jut of his jaw, those beautiful eyelashes…_

_But nobody could ever see it; art was always infused with the artist’s emotions. Anyone who saw any portrait that Bucky created would be bowled over by Bucky’s love etched into every pen stroke, his pining in every shadow._

_Worse still, anyone viewing the picture would instantly fall in love with the subject._

_Every time he trotted down the stairs, and curled up on the remarkably comfortable couch – and that wasn’t every day, fuck you very much, Stark – Bucky would get lost in thoughts of Steve. How he was entirely too modest for his own good, clamming up every time Bucky tried to compliment what he was working on. How he managed to wear more layers than should be physically possible, looking increasingly like the Stay Puft Man as winter chased fall out of the avenues and alleys of New York. It was distressingly endearing to watch him shrug on sweater after sweater, wrenching on a coat over it all and finishing by wrapping himself up in a scarf so long that even wrapped around his head and neck, the ends still reached his waist. The New York winters were no kinder than he remembered from his childhood – though seriously fucked up at times – and Bucky felt a smug pride in the knowledge that Steve was carrying at least an extra five pounds of padding to ward off the chill due to their shared lunches and dinners. He’d think about how Steve had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Jazz and a pretty good singing voice when he could be persuaded to sing, softly, along with Bucky and whatever song was playing._

_He was also entirely too good and too sweet for the likes of Bucky Barnes._

_So despite every cell in him desperate to hold the artist, to keep him tight and safe against his chest, to press a kiss into the enticing hollow beneath his ear, he never said a word, too awed and grateful to be someone Steve trusted, to being the incredible man’s friend, to risk saying anything._

 

“Can you come like this, sugar? Can I make you ruin your pants?”

“Want-” Steve begged, hips liquid as he thrust up into the heavy weight of Bucky’s hand, shuddering as Bucky bent to kiss him, free hand roaming to rub tight circles over his nipples as he licked into Steve’s mouth before moving down that perfect jaw and pale throat, glutting himself on the moans that Steve breathed into his ear as he sucked bruises across stark collarbones.

“You wanna come like this, or you wanna come on my cock?” Bucky didn’t even look up as he asked, just kept stroking Steve’s cock through his pants, letting his thumb rub over the head in the way he knew drove Steve made, dipping to cup his balls every few strokes. He made his own soft noise of hunger, muted into Steve’s skin, but his lover heard it anyway, a hand settling into Bucky’s hair to tangle in its length, tugging gently with each stroke.

“Please. _Please_ , Bucky.” Before Bucky could ask which he wanted, his lover made it abundantly clear, hands weakly reaching out to tug at Bucky’s hips, pulling his down to cup his ass, arching his groin up into Bucky’s.

Bucky tugged his hand from between them, hissing as his cock rasped against the front of Steve’s pants and pushed up onto his knees and squirmed his way down Steve’s body, smirking up at his lover as he tried to raise his head to watch, those slim fingers fluttering over his shoulders. Bucky nosed at Steve’s cock, opening his mouth over the head and breathing, tongue pressing against the fabric.

Steve bit out something garbled and Bucky took pity, unbuckling his belt and popping the button. Unable to stop himself, Bucky pressed a kiss into the bulge beneath the zipper, before tonguing the tab into his mouth, gripping it between his teeth and drawing it slowly down.

Steve’s knees pressed against Bucky’s ribs, hands shaking as they curled into Bucky’s hair, whining urgently as Bucky scratched unhurriedly through the hair low on his belly, before trailing his fingers along the line of his waistband towards his cock. Apparently not swiftly enough for Steve’s liking, his lover clutching at his wrist and pushing his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, pushing it down, pushing it _against_ and finally, finally Bucky’s hand curled around him.

Steve was like a rock, pre-come dripping from the head and already so ready to go Bucky was shocked he hadn’t come yet. Bucky nuzzled along Steve’s nose, peppering his cheeks with soothing kisses as he stroked him. Steve sighed, fingernails digging into Bucky’s wrist as if he had to keep Bucky’s hand where it was, as if Bucky wouldn’t kill anyone that tried to remove his lover from him.                       

“Where do you want me, sugar?” Bucky asked, his words little more than a whisper that became a growl when Steve bullied him where he wanted him, rough hands tugging him down, smirking when Bucky’s weight pressed onto him, pressed him down, hips rocking absently, red lips swollen.

“C’mon,” he complained. “Don’t make me wait, please.”

“Never, sweetheart.”

Steve’s hands are cold where they’re pressed against Bucky’s hips, holding him close as Bucky settled between Steve’s thighs. They’re always cold, no matter how long Bucky holds them between his own or pressed them to his own skin, but he feels he may be addicted to Steve’s hands anyway. Stained as they always are with ink or pain, so slender and strong and insanely distracting when they’re wrapped around a pencil; a brush; Bucky’s cock.

Steve wriggled and Bucky sent him a mock-scolding look.

“You want me to stop, sweetheart?” Bucky ceased the rolling of his hips into Steve’s, instead letting his weight press his lover into the floor, knowing how much Steve loved to feel Bucky atop him, loved feeling so surrounded and safe.

“You wouldn’t,” Steve countered, safe in the knowledge that Bucky really wouldn’t. It had taken only a short time for Bucky to learn that as much as Steve loved to be touched or held, he went utterly crazy for the feel of Bucky’s weight pressing him down and an even shorter time for Bucky to realize that he wanted to indulge that need at any opportunity.

He may tease his lover, but he’d never deny him what he wanted, what he needed.

 

_It all changed the night Steve was mugged on his way home from the Tower. He’d refused a car from Tony – as he did every night - and lost everything he’d had on him at the time, including his art supplies and sketches._

_Not that Bucky had known that at the time; all he’d known was that he’d headed to Steve’s room and the man hadn’t been there. Stark had been utterly useless to get information from, though overflowing with snide comments as to what Bucky wanted Steve for and that did super-spy know he was running a bet on how long it took him to make a move on the artist, but Miss Potts had assured Bucky that Steve had simply called in sick._

_It sounded credible – it was flu season after all, but something about it had Bucky’s hackles up._

_When Steve hadn’t come to the Tower for two days, nor answering any of Bucky’s calls, Bucky went to find him. Knowing Steve, if he had been sick he likely wasn’t looking after himself properly, stubbornly working at home. If he was sick, Bucky could help out. Heat soup or some shit._

_Jarvis was all too happy to provide an address for the artist -  one that was as familiar to him as it was foreign; he’d grown up on those same streets but little of what he remember remained. The building were too new, too high, the streets too crowded and loud -and it hadn’t taken Bucky long to make his way there or determine which set of windows belonged to Steve._

_The sketches stuck to the windows had been something of a hint.  
_

_Bucky eschewed the front door of Steve’s building, preferring instead to slip around to the back, bring down the fire ladder with ease and scurry up the fire escape. The room he assumed to be the bedroom still had the curtains drawn, but Bucky could see clearly into the main room. The majority of the space was taken up by an immense desk that ran along the window, the wood littered with papers and half-finished sketches, weighed down with pencils and pens. A small couch was framed by two small easels, and a bedspread was abandoned on the arm of the couch._

_Despite the lack of bars or shutters on his windows, Steve, or a previous tenant, had had the presence of mind of installing decent locks and he didn’t want to incur the other man’s wrath by either breaking them, or the glass. For a start, he knew Steve would never accept payment to replace the pane._

_Instead, Bucky threw away any hint of stealth and instead hammered on the window loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least the neighbors._

_“Steve! Are you home? Steve?”_

_A click from the adjoining window had Bucky’s head whipping to the side and his hand clutching around the knife at his belt. The window opened only a crack, the curtains still drawn, the room within still dark._

_“Bucky? What are you-” Steve broke off to cough, a harsh and hacking sound, “what are you doing here?”_

_Bucky swore he could smell blood, a scent he was all too achingly familiar with, and his own blood ran cold as his fury burned. He clasped the underside of the window in his left hand and forced it upwards, hearing beyond its creaking protests, the shuffling steps that Steve took as he backed away and Bucky slipped inside._

_It was dark as night within the small bedroom, but Bucky had good eyes and adjusted to the gloom swiftly. Steve had backed away to the opposite wall, huddled near the door and wouldn’t look at him._

_He’d probably scared the shit out of him._

_“I was worried about you.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“Don’t lie to me, Stevie.”_

_“Fine. I’m sick, and I’m going back to bed. I’d prefer you leave through the door if you don’t mind.”_

_With that he looked up at Bucky, defiant even though he trembled._

_Bucky’s breath left him._

_“Fuck me,” he whispered._

 

 

 

“If you keep trying to rush me, baby-doll, I’ll go even slower,” Bucky threatened, panting against Steve’s skin as he slid his fingers into him, knowing full well his words were a lie; one whimpered plea from Steve was always enough for his resolve to cave, now his lover was healed once more, he wasn’t having to be sensible enough for two. Steve bucked beneath him, riding his fingers, seeking even greater pleasure as one slim leg hitched up Bucky’s ribs, heel digging into Bucky’s lower back. It was all Bucky could do but stare at him in awe, gaze flitting from wide eyes to plump lips to marked neck, glutting himself on the sight of his lover so wanton and writhing.

“Fuuuck. Need you, Buck. Need you _now._ ” Steve’s voice was so hoarse Bucky barely recognized it.

When Steve’s shyness fell away and he was nothing more than a ball of desire, going after what he wanted, it was like a drug, a heady feeling to know that he, and he alone, was what Steve wanted, that he was the one responsible for this incredible man’s pleasure, and that he could draw it out as long as he wished.

Until, that was, Steve would gasp out a command, one lust clumsy hand wrapping around his wrist to guide his touch to nipple or mouth or cock, and the illusion would melt.

But it wasn’t just about giving Steve what he wanted, about fulfilling the other man’s need to touch, to be held and stroked and loved. When Bucky’s hands were on Steve, all soft skin and hard edges, he was anchored to Earth in a way he hadn’t been for decades. In a fantastical world filled with aliens and robots and Tony Fucking Stark, Steve was _real_. Steve was his anchor.

So he’d give Steve anything he asked for.

And ask he so often did, unable to get enough of Bucky’s mouth, his taste, the salt of his skin, his touch and the thrust of his cock.

Steve gave just such a command then, fingers tangling in Bucky’s hair as he tugged his head back, leg hitching higher as he whined against Bucky’s lips.

“More. Please, please more.”

All Bucky could do was nod and try to give him what he needed, sliding his fingers free, only to add a third on the next thrust, letting Steve buck up and rub his cock against Bucky’s belly with a moan.

“Like that?” Bucky asked with a grin, losing his breath at how tight Steve was, how molten around his fingers

“B-better than nothing,” Steve stuttered out, even as he eagerly rocked down on Bucky’s fingers. Bucky rewarded him with a harder thrust, spreading his fingers as much as possible, zeroing in on Steve’s prostate with as much skill and determination as he aimed his rifle, smirking as Steve gurgled. He dropped his head down, overwhelmed at how Steve stared up at him as though he hung the moon, nuzzling softly against Steve’s cheek, peppering his skin with adoring kisses and whispering praise.

“So good, babydoll. Take it so well. This what you need?” Everywhere their skin touched Steve’s felt feverish and he could feel all too well how the narrow chest was heaving, slick with sweat and flushed a dull pink and Bucky wished, not for the first time, that his own artistic skills were equal to Steve’s own, to that he could immortalize the sight.

_Steve’s lips normally so plump and pink were puffy, the lower split deeply and held together with three stitches. One eye was black and swollen almost entirely shut. From the way he was standing it was clear that the way he’d shuffled earlier had nothing to do with poor night-vision, but rather that there were further bruises and aches that Bucky couldn’t see, his pale skin likely mottled black and purple._

_Seemingly mistaking Bucky’s horror for revulsion, or even derision, Steve drew himself painfully upright with a hiss, his good eye narrowing in a glower but he was betrayed by his shoulders which hunched up under his ears, though he either caught the gesture or the pain was too great and he was unable to continue._

_The gesture was enough to draw Bucky’s gaze down his arms and to his beautiful hands, and the ugly wounds that marred them. An inhuman growl rolled through the room as Bucky darted forward, toes stubbing into the steel caps of his boots as he forced himself to a stop when Steve folded in on himself, standing his ground but seeming to shrink._

_“I’m sorry,” Bucky offered, holding his hands out, while fury boiled his blood. “I’m sorry. Steve, who did this to you?”_

_Steve continued to glare at him, though his shoulders lost a good deal of tension and sighed._

_“Let’s just say that some muggers are currently able to draw their own police sketches. Assuming they know how to hold a pencil.”_

_Why hadn’t Bucky insisted that he escort Steve home like he always wanted to? Why, when the other man had waved away his concern, had he not just followed him home anyway, like the loyal dog he apparently was where the other man was concerned._

_“But who was it?” He’d been the greatest sniper of a century – a couple muggers were nothing. Nobody would miss them._

_“I don’t know! Frat boys. What difference does it make?”_

_‘All the difference in the world. It’ll mean I don’t kill the wrong people.’_  
  
_It took effort, and no small amount of soothing Steve’s hackles, but slowly Bucky coaxed the full story from Steve, hanging on every word as he tended properly to Steve’s wounds with the meager offerings of his first aid kit._

_When Steve had fallen back into a deep slumber, Bucky let himself out – through the front door as requested, though he pocketed Steve’s keys – and slipped unseen into the bustling streets. It had taken him a laughingly short time, and only a few bribes, to find the fuckers responsible._

_He figured calling the ambulance before he left to be his good deed of the year. Steve would only have been furious if he’d actually killed them like he’d wanted to. It hadn’t even been a decent fight, for all it was three against one._

_On his way back to Steve’s, he purchased enough supplies to keep Steve’s first aid kit stocked and was almost back to the apartment with what little of Steve’s art equipment he’d found at the mugger’s place in his arms, when he’d passed an art supply store. He’d placed his precious cargo on the counter and demanded everything be replaced, as well as ordering two of everything else the shopkeeper though an artist might need._

_Payback was a dish best served on a very long bill; Stark would rue the day that he left his wallet all over the place._

_Or, knowing his obscene fortune, never even notice the depletion of his account._

_So it was that he returned to the small apartment grateful for his metal arm – had art supplies always weighed so much? Perhaps he should have purchased a new bag for Steve to heft it all around in._

_Maybe something with wheels._

_Like an armored car._

 He slid his fingers free and shuffled his knees wider and guided his cock to Steve’s ass.

“You ready for me, doll?”

“Hurry up,” Steve ground out, hips rolling as he attempted to push back onto Bucky’s cock, whining when he was foiled.

“Just making sure, sugar.” He pushed in, slow but unrelenting, one hand smoothing along Steve’s ribs, the artist struggling against his hold to try to take what he was after, what he was being denied, his thighs wrapping around Bucky’s ribs, heels digging into his ass to bring him closer.

“Hello,” Bucky whispered as he dropped lower over his lover, buried deep. Steve didn’t say anything, just lifted his chin, hands suddenly gentle as he drew Bucky down into a kiss.

So soft. So fucking sweet, the hunger abating in Steve now he had what he wanted, his lips soft, his kisses teasing, tongue playful as it stroked across Bucky’s.

Bucky was unable to do anything else but be was swept along for the ride, hands stroking over Steve’s heated skin as sweetly as Steve was kissing him, re-acquainting himself with every curve of each muscle, soft skin stretched across his hips, the hollow at the back of his knees, scraping his nails down the back of his thighs to watch him shiver, cupping the curve of his ass when Steve rocked back on Bucky’s cock.

When Bucky does finally begin to move, the roll of his hips was languid, his thrusts slow, alternating between short strokes, barely pulling out before thrusting back in, and drawing out almost completely only to slide back in to steal Steve’s breath.

It was all in stark contrast to what Bucky had expected after how desperate Steve had been when he’d demanded Bucky fuck him hard, but being with Steve was like that sometimes.

Like every roller-coaster on Colney Island and just as much fun.

It was everything Bucky still wasn’t sure he really deserved.

Steve rocked down to meet Bucky’s thrusts, accepting the slower pace, luxuriating in the feel of Bucky above and inside him, wallowing in the lazy Sunday morning feel of it all.

“Like that, Bucky. Just like that, please.”

Bucky groaned, ducking his face into Steve’s neck as he rolled his hips with more force, keeping it slow, giving Steve what he needed.

“Touch me, Buck. Please. Need you.”

It took sheer force of will for Bucky to pry a hand from Steve’s hips, sliding it across his taut stomach, through the mess of pre-come pooled on sweat-slick skin, fisting Steve’s cock.

“Yessssss.”

“Look at you, sweetheart. Look at you. Fuck, doll, you’re so ready, aren’t you?”

 

_Steve was still asleep when Bucky got back, but either Bucky had lost all forms of stealth around the other man, or he was just too unused to other people in his apartment, within ten minutes of Bucky slipping inside, Steve was stumbling out of his room, rubbing at his good eye with one bandaged fist, hair sticking up in all directions._

_All that adorable sleepiness however had disappeared without a trace when he caught sight of the enormous stack of bags, instantly recognizing the local store’s packaging, brows furrowing as he glanced between the bags, Bucky, and back again._

_“Tell me you didn’t.”_

_“Is there any point?” Bucky asked with a grin. “Before you get all fired up-”_

_“Take it back.”_

_“-okay too late. But before you get any_ more _fired up, think of it this way; it’s a business expense. If your work cell or laptop got stolen, your company would replace it right? So, what’s the difference? You work for Stark Industries, and SI ensured your stuff got replaced.”_

_“Stark did?”_

_“Well, yeah.”_

_“So you guys were talking about me? You go telling Stark I got beat up, that’s why I couldn’t come to work?”_

_“Huh?!”_

_“What the fuck, Bucky!” Steve’s eyes were snapping, that now familiar fire aimed at Bucky. His face was flushed, thin chest puffed out as he squared his shoulders, anger overriding the pain that had stopped him from so much as shrugging earlier._

_“What?! What did I do?” Bucky was pretty certain he had whiplash from how thrown by the change in Steve’s demeanor he was. He’d thought that maybe the artist would be a little irritated by his purchases, perhaps even sulk for a day or two over the extravagance, but this was something utterly unexpected._

_Steve wasn’t annoyed. He was flat-out pissed._

_“I can’t believe I ever thought w-” Steve cut himself off. “You guys laugh about it? About how I couldn’t even protect my fucking pencils?”_

_“What? Steve, no! What the fuck? Of course not! I didn’t even-”_

_“Get out. Just get out. Leave me alone!”_

_“Can’t do that, Stevie. Let me explain.”_

_“I don’t want to hear it!” Steve was on him, gasping at the pain as he launched himself at Bucky, bandaged hands coming up to shove against Bucky’s chest, forcing him back only a couple of stumbling steps, the Avenger taken completely off-guard. He easily caught Steve’s wrist in his left hand, careful not to do anything more than restrain as he reached out with his other arm to tug Steve to him in a bastardized hug. Steve struggled against him, landing weak hits, little more than slaps, across Bucky’s back and shoulders with his free hand, breath hitching with every strike, Bucky’s heart breaking to hear him in pain._

_“Just leave.”_

_“Can’t. Won’t.” Bucky held onto him, stroking his hand across the small of Steve’s back as he held him, Steve trying to push him away._

_“Why?” The plaintive, broken tone to Steve’s voice was far more painful to Bucky than any blow Steve could have dealt, the small man trembling in Bucky’s arms._

_“Why can’t you just go?”_

_Bucky felt his back tense and his stomach turned to lead, churning in a way it never did, even during an alien invasion; if he didn’t handle this right, he could lose a friendship that he’d long since come to cherish. He could cope with not being with Steve, but losing him from his life entirely was unthinkable._

_Bucky released Steve’s wrist, easing himself back a step to give him space, though his right hand remained splayed on his waist. He looked down at Steve._

_He looked like shit, his gaze firmly on the floor._

_Bucky wasn’t sure what the next step was, exactly, but he knew he had to be the one to take it. But he didn’t know how; this wasn’t anything like how he thought this conversation would ever go. He had to let Steve know how terrified he’d been to find him hurt. How he’d hated himself every minute of tracking the muggers down, how he’d berated himself for failing to protect the man he cared about. What was the point in saving the world on a monthly basis if he couldn’t keep Steve safe? He needed to tell him he couldn’t bear to be sent from Steve’s side._

_He just needed to find the words._

_“Couple months ago, you told me that I wasn’t what I did. That I wasn’t my past.”_

_Steve kept staring at the floor, but he nodded slowly._

_“I’ve been working so hard to come to terms with everything that happened – to me, by me –that I spent so little time thinking about my future. I’ve realized there are only two things I need.”_

_Steve looked up at that, confusion creasing his brow, eyes searching Bucky’s._

_“I need to atone. And I need you.”_

_Silence stretched out between them, heavy in the dark room, and Bucky fought the overwhelming desire to flee, to drop Steve’s gaze, to deny it all, to pretend he never said anything, to rush forward and swallow the words before Steve could hear them. But he forced himself to continue._

_“However you’ll have me. However you’ll let me love you.”_

_His words, his thoughts, his feelings were laid bare to Steve and though he was sure they were safe in his beautiful hands, an icy fist twisted his guts ever more the longer the silence continued._

_“Me?” It was little more than a whisper, a gunshot in the dark._

_Nodding, Bucky gazed at Steve, all pale skin and dark bruises and it took everything he had not to reach out and kiss each mark, to press his lips to every hurt. It was physically painful not to and he was so focused on not pressing feather-light kisses to Steve’s black eye that he didn’t have the self-control left over to stop himself from curling his fingers around Steve’s hand to bring it to his lips and drop a kiss onto bandaged knuckles._

_Time stopped._

_It took every ounce of courage he had for Bucky not to look away when Steve’s gaze met his, the sound of their breathing abnormally loud in the oppressive silence._

_Then Steve stepped closer, rocked onto his toes, grasped Bucky’s cheeks in his cool hands and kissed him. It was a little clumsy, Steve kissing him as though he’d never get the chance again, and Bucky was terrified to touch him, terrified to cause the other man more pain, but his hands fluttered up to spread gently across the stark wings of Steve’s shoulder-blades, awkward and ecstatic._

_Some small part of Bucky’s brain was mortified – he wasn’t entirely certain, but he was pretty sure that the man he’d once been had been fucking smooth. Stark had even had Jarvis read out a couple passages from recently published Howling Commandoes biographies in which women he’d made time with had spoken at length as to his charm. His being fumbling and awkward hadn’t been mentioned once._

_The rest of his brain was happily offline from the feel of Steve pressed against him, the scent of him, the taste of his lips, and Bucky’s hands flowed up his neck and buried themselves in Steve’s hair._

_Steve pulled back, his lips lingering, clinging to Bucky’s and the rasp of his stitches provided a delicious counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, and the wash of his breath against Bucky’s skin. His eyes were wide as he gazed up at Bucky, already starting to retreat and Bucky couldn’t have that, sliding his hands down to nape and shoulder to keep him close._

_“This okay?” He breathed, resting their foreheads together, squeezing gently on the back of Steve’s neck, fingertips scratching into the hair at the base of his skull to watch Steve shudder._

_“God damn, you’re gorgeous. It should be illegal how beautiful you are,” Bucky told him, hushed and awed, the words spilling out after months of being held in, and some of the uncertainty in Steve’s eyes faded while he blushed, ducking his head in acute embarrassment. Unable to help himself, Bucky mouthed at Steve’s ear, kissing the soft hollow behind it and trailing his lips along stubbled jaw. He kept his touch light, gently stroking his hand along Steve’s arm as though soothing a startled horse._

_“Please,” Steve whispered, trembling faintly under Bucky’s hands, causing the Avenger to frown, “please don’t be…if you’re doing this because I look like_ him _, can we just forget about the last-”_

_“No!” In the quiet of the room his cry was like a crack of thunder, and he whispered an apology. “No, doll, never. It’s all you.” Bucky drew back only far enough that he could look into Steve’s eyes, so Steve could see the truth, hands never leaving his skin._

_“I’ll admit, when I opened that door, when I saw you…I thought those robots had knocked my head around a lot more than I’d thought.”_

_Steve stiffened again. “Probably did,” he muttered. Bucky brushed a kiss to his forehead to shush him._

_“Because,” he continued, “you were the most beautiful person…you had charcoal all over your sleeve and ink on your hands, and don’t get me started on your fucking eyelashes…Fucking gorgeous, sweetheart. And I knew you were gonna be trouble.” Bucky kept softly petting Steve, free hand running through his hair._

_“What if I tell you that I’m here with you because you’re secretly hilarious? What if I say it’s because you don’t roll your eyes when I bitch about a lack of flyin’ cars that somebody’s father promised? Or because you make the most beautiful art outta nothing? That I adore that you can never remember where you left your reading glasses and that I gotta hunt down whatever sandwich you didn’t eat that day before it stinks up the place. That you ain’t scared of nothing for all you’re shy. Fuckin’ stubborn bastard too.”_

_Alright, so maybe it wasn’t exactly the best way to confess his feelings, but he meant every single word. If he had to, he’d repeat every single one a thousand times, whisper them into Steve’s skin until the man believed them, until they seeped into his bones, carried with him every moment of the day._

_What would help was if Steve would say something._

_Anything._

_Because he was just staring intently at him as though trying to work out a complicated problem and while it was about the hardest thing Bucky had ever done, he stayed still and let the man decide, rubbing his thumb along the side of Steve’s neck.. The trembling was abating but Steve’s hand was twitching like he wanted to ball it into a fist, or run._

_Just when Bucky decided to retreat, to apologize, to slink away, Steve smiled like the fucking sun coming out, a little tentative and a little hesitant, but beautiful, closing the distance between them again in a rush, the kiss a little off centre for it, but Bucky just tilted his head and let their lips slide together._

_They stayed like that for long minutes, Bucky petting and stroking gently over Steve’s skin, learning the shape of his shoulders, tracing the lines of his muscles, lost in the sweet way Steve was kissing him, soft and so needy, as Steve’s hands clenched in his shirt and at his waist._

_They kissed for what felt like an age, a slow and gentle caress that Bucky kept soft in deference to Steve’s injuries, not letting the artist rush him, quieting his complaints with playful brushes of his lips, quelling the nascent rocking of his hips, hissing when Steve huffed in frustration and bit into his lower lip. He got his wish to kiss each bruise he could see, to whisper words of adoration into each hurt beaten onto his love, holding him close._

_They went no further than that, that first night. Or the next. Or even the next week, Bucky far too concerned with Steve’s recuperation than sex. Far more worried than Steve himself from the way the man would try to tempt him, but no matter how frustrated Steve got, no matter how gorgeous he looked straddling Bucky on the couch, slim thighs split across Bucky’s hips, rocking his groin into Bucky’s cupping hand, clever fingers toying with the buttons of Bucky’s shirts, Bucky would gentle him and pull back._

 

 

They were almost silent now, Steve long past speech, moans all that he could mutter, and Bucky was too lost in sensation to do much more than pant, instead filling his mouth with Steve’s skin as he sucked bruises across his collarbone. His senses were in hyper-drive and all of it was Steve; the sound of Steve’s ragged breath, the flush on Steve’s skin, the heat of Steve’s ass, the smell of Steve’s sweat, and the taste of his skin.

It was like fucking flying, like every terrifying, exhilarating jump from the Quinjet.

Steve came hard, shooting over Bucky’s hand, wet and messy and elated as Bucky fucked him through it, hand twisting on Steve’s dick, keeping him hard as he chased his own release, pushing into him harder and faster.

When Steve’s moans turned to hisses, Bucky released his cock, bracing himself on the floor as he pounded into Steve, bending him almost in half to try and kiss him, little more than breathing each other’s air, messy and clumsy and oh so good.

When Bucky came it was with a soft cry, and he clutched Steve’s hip, fingers digging into the sparse flesh, sure to leave bruises as he shuddered in Steve’s arms, mouthing at his neck as he whimpered his way through it.

“Stevie.”

“Right here, Buck. Right here.”

They lay there breathless and gasping, exchanging kisses and touches, until Bucky rolled away to grab the blanket from the couch, tugging Steve to lie mostly on top of him and bullying him under the blanket, ignoring his complaints with practised ease, loving the feel of his lover draping heavy limbs over his thighs, delighting in the feel of his skin, nuzzling into the warmth of Steve’s neck, equal parts lazy and affectionate.

They fit together so well like this, intertwined as Bucky smudged soft kisses to Steve’s skin, one hand stroking over Steve’s side and hip, skittering over his back, petting and tracing random patterns and lines. Steve sighed, a contended, satisfied sound as he ran a hand through Bucky’s hair.

They both knew they should get cleaned up, that otherwise they’d get stuck to each other or the blanket but neither of them made a move, too happy and satiated to care.

 

 

It had all been Stark’s fault.

Bucky might even thank him one day.

Then again, maybe not.

 


End file.
